Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  Gileas’s body bore its own share of scars too; although, being junior by far, he had not yet accumulated such a wealth of honour to decorate his skin. The fading white, jagged edges of a scar that ran from his neck down across the solid mass of his fused ribcage and down to his abdomen stood out starkly in contrast to his olive-dark skin. He wore that scar more proudly than any honour marking.

  It was inevitable that a martial display of this kind would draw something of a crowd, but Gileas did not notice immediately the fact that most of those present in the training halls had edged closer to watch the two fighting.

  Kerelan and Gileas came together with an audible impact and blows began flurrying with alacrity, each attempting to find the way past the other’s defences. Gileas drew his head back to avoid a punch aimed precisely for his jaw. He bent his huge body backwards and twisted so that he was in a position to bring up a kick towards Kerelan’s torso. His booted foot was grabbed by the first captain and wrenched aside. He lost his balance for a moment before righting himself.

  As he always did, Gileas soon became lost in the untold ecstasy of battle. When Eclipse was in his hand, he always considered it less of a separate weapon and more of an extension of his own body. He controlled it; he guided it to where it needed to be. But with or without its snarling power in his grip, he was a formidable warrior. Kerelan commented as much as they fought.

  ‘Andreas Kulle trained you well. He picked up a lot of unconventional tactics in the years he served with the Deathwatch, so they say.’

  They were words that annoyed Gileas. Kulle had indeed been less orthodox than many other Silver Skulls in his manner of executing warfare and Gileas had taken a number of cues from his mentor. Something of the irritation he felt must have flashed in his eyes.

  ‘Do not fall prey to that southern temper of yours, sergeant,’ Kerelan said and brought his leg round in a sudden movement. He hooked Gileas behind the knees and the younger warrior crashed onto his back. Kerelan was immediately ready with another blow, but Gileas rolled clear.

  ‘My temper is in check, first captain.’

  ‘No,’ said Kerelan, taking a step back and eyeing his opponent warily as Gileas got to his feet. ‘No, it is not. It is there for any to take advantage of. Lose your focus in a battle situation and you lose the advantage. A rush of anger may lend you strength and determination, but it also breaks your concentration. And when that happens…’

  When he moved, he did so with such nimble speed that Gileas did not stand a chance. The relentless first captain barrelled into him with all the power he could muster and the pair of them went flying. Gileas crashed against the side of the training cage, which shook under the sudden impact but held firm. Kerelan was back on his feet with cat-like agility and stood with his foot planted on Gileas’s chest.

  ‘Enough yet, Ur’ten?’ The gruesome skull leered down at him and in that instant it became readily apparent why it was that Kerelan was so feared on the battlefield.

  ‘I am not the kind of man who gives up, first captain, but in this instance I feel you have made a very valid point.’ Kerelan laughed at the younger warrior’s words and stepped back. He offered out a hand to help the sergeant up and Gileas clasped it, standing once again with the minimum of effort.

  ‘You fight well, Gileas. Of course, there is always room for improvement. You must strive to be the best you can be in everything that you do.’

  ‘I always have, sir.’

  Kerelan’s eyes narrowed. He dropped his voice down so that Gileas alone could hear him. The gathering of battle-brothers was beginning to dissipate now that the demonstration was over but it was evident that Kerelan still wanted to keep his words for Gileas’s ears only.

  ‘Do not pay heed to Djul’s barbs. He will test your patience to its limits because he feels that it is his duty to do so.’

  ‘I do not understand, sir.’

  ‘No, Gileas, you do not. For that, you should be grateful for your youth. Your generation has been entirely more tolerant of the cultural differences that exist between the people of Varsavia and those of other recruiting worlds. Djul is a Varsavian to the core.’

  ‘As am I,’ countered Gileas. He knew precisely where the first captain was heading with this conversation but he felt obliged to see it through to its natural conclusion. Something like annoyance kindled in him, but he pushed it down.

  ‘True enough. But you are from what those of Djul’s upbringing would call the “savage south”. He was born to the privilege of the northern cities and received education and schooling before he was even handed over to the Silver Skulls. A certain prejudice is so deeply ingrained in those of his ilk that it is difficult to remove. He considers you little more than a tamed animal – an animal with the potential to turn on its masters at any time.’

  ‘He questions my loyalty?’ Gileas’s brow feathered together in obvious distaste and Kerelan shook his head.

  ‘No, brother. That is perhaps the one and only thing that he does not question. He is against your suitability to command based purely on historical accounts of others from the south of this world. You know of what I speak, of course.’

  Gileas did. Battle-brothers initiated into the ranks of the Silver Skulls from the tribes scattered across the vast southern continent of the Chapter’s home world were invariably fiery souls who burned brightly and died swiftly. There were exceptions to the rule, of course – there had been tribal-raised Prognosticators and even a Chaplain – but the reputation of southerners as savage warriors was not unfounded.

  ‘I have done nothing but serve my Chapter, my Chapter Master and the Emperor from the day I swore fealty to the Silver Skulls,’ said Gileas, his tone less neutral than it had been before. He had been away from Varsavia for many years but it seemed that the ancient prejudices that caused friction within the Chapter had not diminished. ‘Every one of my men…’ He paused, correcting his own words. ‘Every brother in Eighth Company followed my orders without question. We took losses, but they were minimal. I have the ability to lead. Brother Djul should be made aware that it was the Emperor’s word which stayed my progression through the ranks, not any accident of my birth.’

  ‘He is aware of this, Gileas. But Djul is… complicated. I merely ask that you do not rise to any slights he may put before you. You will not come out of such an altercation well.’

  ‘I hear your words, first captain,’ said Gileas. ‘I hear them, but they sit poorly with me. I had thought our Chapter beyond such conflict.’

  ‘Whatever you may think, heed my advice, sergeant.’ Kerelan studied Gileas’s face without expression in his eyes. ‘You will do yourself no favours if you fall to infighting. I will speak with Djul separately on the matter. Our Chapter is going through complicated times. We do not need to perpetuate them from within.’

  ‘I swear to you that I will hold my tongue and keep a tight rein on my temper,’ said Gileas after a time.

  ‘Good,’ said Kerelan. ‘Then get back to your training. A pleasure sparring with you, boy. Perhaps we can do so again whilst you are here?’

  ‘I would consider it an honour to train alongside the Talriktug, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kerelan conversationally. ‘I suppose it would be.’

  The funereal moon of Pax Argentius orbited Varsavia and was considered one of the Chapter’s most sacred places. Elaborate white marble tombs and vast mausoleums sprawled across its airless grey surface. There were also many halls and places of sanctuary, heavy with icons dedicated to the Imperial creed, for those who preached the Emperor’s word but were not gifted psychically were trained here under the banner of the Chaplains. The sheer majesty of Pax Argentius was enough to silence even the most loquacious of tongues, but in this sombre labyrinth, the warriors of the Silver Skulls could find words of inspiration that could calm the most turbulent of souls.

  As the shuttle circled to prepare for a landing
, Gileas stared out of the window across the vast rows of headstones. Down there were the remains of battle-brothers he had fought alongside, and hundreds of others he had not. All had died in service to the Emperor. It was traditional to cremate the bodies of the fallen and place a tombstone in remembrance; although those who had performed above and beyond the call of duty were laid to rest within one of the ancient mausoleums.

  ‘This is the first time I have seen this and truly understood what it means.’

  The voice belonged to Nicodemus, who sat opposite Gileas. At Attellus’s request, the sergeant had agreed to bring the youth with him. Thus far the boy had been mostly silent, but it was a respectful silence rather than the awe of travelling alongside an accomplished warrior. Gileas appreciated the thoughtfulness of the gesture; he had spent much of the journey here in silence himself, his mind caught up in memories of brothers and mentors long gone.

  He looked up now and considered Nicodemus. If ever there had been a youth who reminded him of what he had once been – both physically and psychologically – it was this one. He had not been surprised to discover that Nicodemus was also a southern-born warrior. It had created an instant bond between the seasoned sergeant and the untried boy. Gileas liked the youth; there was something of Andreas Kulle in his manner and choice of words, and that ensured an immediate friendship sprang up.

  ‘And what do you make of it?’

  ‘It is…’ Nicodemus shook his head and stared out of the viewport. ‘It is overwhelming. So many graves. So many lost battle-brothers. It is curious, sir. I spent time with the Chaplains on this world for a number of months, but never really paid full attention to my surroundings. I was too lost in my studies.’ The boy’s face was pressed up against the plex-glass viewport. Gileas chuckled quietly.

  ‘The Silver Skulls are proud warriors of the Second Founding, Nicodemus. Over the thousands of years we have served the Golden Throne, we have lost many. There have been times when engagements have stolen away great numbers of our brotherhood. But always…’ Gileas also stared out at the grey, colourless world with its similarly colourless tombstones. ‘Always, we rebuild. We are Silver Skulls. We will prevail. Never forget that.’

  Even as he spoke the words, Gileas felt a brief ache of grief in the depths of his soul. Not just for the recent loss of his captain, but for all those he had lost. He yearned now to stand in the Halls of Remembrance and to speak the words that would commit the memory of Keile Meyoran to the ancestors.

  Five

  Absolution

  ‘I know why you are here, brother. Release the burden you carry and your soul will be better prepared for what comes next in your service to the Golden Throne.’

  Gileas knelt before the statue of the God-Emperor that stood in pride of place at the front of the vast Halls of Remembrance. He had been there for several hours, reciting litanies and prayers. The sergeant had fervently given thanks to the God-Emperor for His wisdom and benevolence, and he had pledged oaths of vengeance for his captain’s death over and over.

  The cavernous hall was a creation of breathtaking and exquisite beauty. The chapels on board the strike cruisers and battle-barges in which the sergeant had travelled during his many years of service had always been places of great humility and awe. But they were as nothing compared to the majesty of Pax Argentius, the spiritual home of the Chapter.

  Within its sepulchral walls Chapter Masters were invested, and when they reached the end of their lives, their remains were interred in the catacombs that wound beneath it. A warrior could walk into this holy space with a heavy heart or troubled soul and leave with a clear conscience… as long as he paid the dues he owed to the Emperor.

  The Halls of Remembrance were a clear analogy for birth and death. This was a place where events transpired to shape a living, breathing Chapter. Its very existence was a testament to the pious nature of the Silver Skulls and at the same time, it was an unholy shrine to what some considered their most barbaric practice.

  Silvered skulls, trophies from countless engagements across a thousand star systems, were mounted on plinths or displayed in artfully designed recesses in the walls. Every race ever encountered by the Silver Skulls was on display here for all to see. A clear statement of martial capability, they were at once gruesome, freakish things and beautifully rendered works of art.

  The vast stained-glass window that stood behind the statue of the God-Emperor was plain in design: an intricately crafted representation of the Chapter’s insignia. Shafts of pale light that trickled in from Varsavia’s binary star fell on the marbled floor within, their colours dappled and magnificent.

  Nicodemus stood some way behind the sergeant, his eyes lowered. The aching, stark beauty of the chapel stirred emotions in him that he had never previously experienced with the heightened sensations of one raised to the ranks. He had begun to become accustomed to his enhanced senses; the shifting colours on the floor were vibrant and alive in a way they hadn’t been when he had been fully mortal. Even the scent of the place was filled with curiosity. He could detect the trace scents of the other two Space Marines nearby; the one with a definite air of promethium lingering from his chosen weapon, and the other garbed in a dry, dusty scent that spoke of his time amongst the dead.

  They both bore the clean ice aroma of Varsavia and yet there were subtle differences that meant Nicodemus could have detected them in the dark even if his eyes failed him. He marvelled quietly at the wonders that had been wrought upon his body.

  Gileas raised his bowed head and met the eyes of one he knew well but had spent precious little time with in recent years. Sensations of guilt flooded through his system. Chaplain Akando laid a hand gently on the sergeant’s dark hair.

  ‘You should be at peace, Gileas. Keile’s death was no more your fault than that of any of the Eighth. To bear the weight of that will serve you poorly, my brother. And what serves you poorly affects your judgement. You can ill afford such a luxury at this time.’

  ‘It is difficult to let it go, my lord.’ Chaplains such as Akando were rare within the Chapter. Not psychically gifted, the Silver Skulls nonetheless revered them every bit as much as the powerful psykers of the Prognosticatum. ‘Captain Meyoran trusted in me as his second-in-command and I was unable to stop the events that took him from us.’

  ‘He died as he would have wanted, bringing death to the enemies of mankind. His life was given in the service of the Emperor. You know yourself that such an end is the best that any of us wish for.’ Akando’s words were wise and spoken softly to a warrior who struggled to conceal his emotions: the sergeant’s guilt was written across his face. The Chaplain tipped his head to one side. ‘What is it that you seek in this place, Gileas?’

  ‘I am unsure, my lord.’ Gileas’s brow furrowed. ‘Forgiveness of some sort, perhaps. Peace of mind. Absolution.’

  ‘Then think on this. Meyoran was right to have chosen you for that duty,’ Akando reassured. ‘You are stoic of spirit and strong of will. The Emperor elevated you above mortal men and you were granted a second life as one of His Angels of Wrath. You serve the Chapter and the Imperium with all your heart and soul. I have heard you recite the Catechism of Hate over and again. Sometimes, Gileas, you even get it right.’

  The Chaplain’s expression did not change. ‘You did what you had to do. Nothing more, nothing less. I have told you to be at peace. Now heed those words, for there is nothing to forgive, brother.’

  A flicker of a smile played around Gileas’s lips and he rested back on his heels. Akando stood towering over him, wearing a tabard not dissimilar to that which Gileas wore. In deference to his role and function within the Chapter, however, Akando’s tabard was black. The Chaplain, like Eighth Company, had recently been recalled to Varsavia and was serving his own term of duty. Only for Akando, that duty would be spent almost entirely on Pax Argentius, amongst the dead and the remembered.

  ‘It is difficult,’ Gil
eas said eventually. ‘To be here amongst the fallen and have nothing of Captain Meyoran’s body to lay to rest. I feel as though he deserves more than just my words.’ The sergeant glanced over his shoulder to where Nicodemus was seated in a meditative pose. The boy’s reverence for the Halls of Remembrance, a place forbidden to novitiates, had been pleasing. ‘But I have chosen to make the offering in his stead.’

  Akando nodded again. ‘Get to your feet, Gileas. Between the sons of Varsavia there should be nothing but equality. I cannot speak to you as my equal whilst you are down there.’

  Gileas got to his feet and he and Akando briefly gripped one another’s forearms. The greeting was very much brother to brother. The two were of an age, with Akando Gileas’s slight senior, and they had faced many enemies together before. There were obvious genetic similarities between them, but they were comparatively few. Akando was a warrior recruited from a different planet, not even having been born on the Silver Skulls home world. His hair was closely shaved to his head but Gileas knew that were he to let it grow, it would be the same coppery shade shared by Tikaye, one of his own squad.

  ‘To make the offering for one who has fallen beyond reclamation is an act of selflessness, Gileas Ur’ten. The Emperor looks with great favour on those who perform such a gesture. But it is not a necessity.’

  ‘It is for me. It is the least I can do. He is worth more than just a name on a tombstone. And ultimately, we are all brothers. The same blood flows through our veins. What good is that bond if we do not value it?’

  ‘Fine words. Very well then, it shall be as you wish, brother.’ Akando gripped Gileas’s forearm and then turned to the altar before the Emperor’s likeness. He gathered up two pieces of stone mined from Argent Mons, the range in which the fortress-monastery was nestled. Tiny veins of silver ore ran through the dark grey stone.

  ‘Nicodemus.’

  Gileas spoke softly to the young Scout-in-training, whose eyes opened obediently. He gazed quizzically at the sergeant and Chaplain.